


By Her Hand (Revised)

by calistabista



Series: By Her Hand [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2019-11-14 20:04:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18059162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calistabista/pseuds/calistabista
Summary: WIP Revision of By Her Hand





	1. The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! 
> 
> So as I’ve been working on By Her Hand, and writing and rewriting, I’ve realized that my ideas and characterizations have shifted and fluctuated over the last two years since I started writing this story. I’ve tried to keep everything as consistent as possible, but as I keep trying to move forward with the story, the continuity of character personalities has been nagging at me. When I first started writing this story right after season seven premiered, I didn’t even consider political Jon a possibility! I was so mad at him lol, and of course that bled through into my characterizations of Sansa and Arya. Then I started thinking about it more, and reading metas, and was like oh duh, political Jon makes a ton of sense. I’ve also been thinking a lot about the distinctions between the book and the show - when I started this story I was more familiar with the show and this again characterized my writing. Over the past year, I’ve been rereading the books, and looking at meta that in particular, looks at the ways in which characters have been flattened or diminished. One character in particular that I keep coming back to is Tyrion, who D&D have very much made an all-knowing white knight at the expense of characters like Sansa, Catelyn, Shae, and Daenerys. And I definitely replicated this in my writing, which is something that I’d like to examine in further detail. Anyway, all this to say, I think I have definitely grown as a writer over the past two years and would like to work on revising what I’ve already written before moving forward. The revised version of By Her Hand will be started as a separate story, and feel free to keep enjoying the original version! It will never be deleted, especially since it’s full of all your lovely comments! 
> 
> The first chapter is posted, let me know what you think. If there are any changes that I think readers of the originals will need to know, I’ll post them in the end notes. Look for the second chapter sometime after the first episode premieres! Are y’all excited??!!! I can’t wait!! 
> 
> Also, a little bit about me. I’m working as an ESL teacher at the moment, and just got accepted to the Fulbright program in Taiwan! I’ll be starting in August, and will spend a whole year there. I’ve already got Duolingo loaded up with Mandarin, and have started practicing 😍
> 
> Lots of love, CalistaBista 
> 
> Recognizable Dialogue from "Oathkeeper" and A Game of Thrones

She had died in fire.  _ A terrible way to die. _

The flames had been instantaneous when she touched the lit match to the oozing liquid, thick and murky from the cold. It burned with a sickening green light that had blinded her for an instant, before obliterating her eyes.

It had snowed heavily on that last morning. 

Not the big, fat fakes that seemed to dance on their way down from the sky, begging to be caught on the tongue. Nor the light powder that fell apart in your hands, refusing to shape into snowballs. This storm was as relentless as death, a veil of frozen tears. It buried the world under a thick, white shroud. 

The grey sky mocked her. Grey sky, white earth. There was no need for her house words any longer.  _ Winter had come. _ __

Missandei and Lady Karstark stood waiting by the crypt. Had it not been for their white puffs of breath, Sansa might have thought them statutes, standing grave as stone in the snow.

Alys’ gloved fingers brushed against Sansa’s arm. “Are you well, my lady?”

It was an empty question, hollowed by truth. The words would not change the darkness growing on the horizon, yet there was much needed comfort in the courtesy. 

“It is done,” Sansa said. She knew she should lead the way into the crypt, but she could not tear her eyes from the sky. Watching, and waiting for a break in the clouds, a dark wing tearing open the heavens.

“When the slavers took me from the Naath, I looked back as long as I could.” Missandei’s voice was distant, echoing with remembrance. “The passing of time has stolen many of my memories, but I still remember how white the sands looked that day. This snow reminds me of it now.” 

But Missandei’s eyes seemed to look further, and Sansa knew she was waiting too. When Sansa had offered the chance to those who wished to run, Missandei had not taken it. She had chosen to die in this cold and distant land.  _ For this is where my love will come looking for me, she had told Sansa, and I will be waiting for him in whatever way he comes.  _

Regret pulled at Sansa only faintly now. She would die as she had been born, in the heart of the North. Once, she had been a child, fragile as spun glass. Now her bones were built of duty, and they bore the weight of Winter’s crown. 

They descended into Winterfell’s crypts, their footsteps echoing down the narrow, spiral stairwell. Sansa pulled the heavy, wooden door shut behind them. It did not lock. They didn’t need it to. 

She kept one hand on the stone wall as they went down. As practiced as she was at this walk, she had never done it in the dark. Her steps were faltering in the lack of torchlight. The ghosts of children skittered beside her in the darkness. Robb had brought her and Arya with Bran still a babe down into the crypts, years and years ago. Out of the tombs had burst a horrible, pale figure moaning for blood. Sansa had shrieked and ran, only to hear Robb and the ghost laughing. It had only been Jon, covered in flour.

_ I wish Jon were here.  _ As soon as the thought arose, Sansa quashed it in terror. The gods might hear and twist her plea, sending her a monster with Jon’s face, and none of him left. She could not bear it. Jon’s face empty like that.

Sam had sent two ravens back before their armies reached the broken Wall. Eight men had staggered back after the battle, telling tales of the horror. Jon had gone down riding his dragon, Daenerys falling in tandem. After that, the armies of the living stood no chance. 

At the bottom of the stairs a long procession of granite pillars marched two by two into the blackness. Between the pillars, the dead sat on their stone thrones, surrounded by the living. Winterfell held no prisoners. Those who had wished to run were long gone, their footprints buried under fresh snowfall. Those who remained under her care were huddled together against the chill. It was pitch black in the crypts, and deadly quiet. 

It was the children. They had stopped crying. Even Alysanne Mormont’s little boy who had howled with lungs to rival a wolf’s ever since his mother rode away.

Sam’s wife, Gilly, was curled up next to a stone direwolf. Her child slept in her arms, mouth slack from the deep slumber of sweetsleep. All of the children, from the squalling babes to those still clutching wooden swords had been given doses on her orders. They would never feel a thing.   

Those who were awake, watched her. Waiting. The future had always seemed a heavy burden to be shouldered. Now it felt as delicate as a butterfly’s wings, liable to snap in a heartbeat. Sansa wanted to close her fingers around the promise of another morrow like a caged bird. But it could not be. 

There was a rumble from over their heads that sent dirt and dust raining down. Lady Tallhart hiccuped and began to cry. Maggie Umber rubbed her shoulders as she tried to stifle her sobs in the palm of her hand. 

Shouts ran out from above, dulled by the depths of the crypt. A small part of the armies had stayed behind to defend the castle. Sansa had begged her sister to do the same.

_ “Stay,”  _ Sansa had demanded. But it was no true command from a lady to her vassal, only a desperate plea from a sister, weary of lying abed a night wondering where her loved ones were.

Arya hadn’t responded. Her gaze was distant, already half at war. The memory of their father bowing before his own blade on the steps of Baelor struck Sansa with a dull thud.

“Arya.” Sansa’s throat ached. “We are wolves. When Winter comes, the lone wolf dies. The pack survives.” But her words tasted bitter and burnt. Ash on her tongue.

_ Like Lady’s bones in the lichyard.  _

_ Like her father’s head on a spike.  _

_ Like her brothers’ blood in the dirt. _

_ Like her mother’s body in the Trident.  _

_ Like Jon’s eyes. Blue as death.  _

“Aye,” said Arya, finally. “But we won’t survive this. Will we?” 

A tendril of hair had escaped Sansa’s braid and stuck to her damp cheek. Her sister reached out, and tucked it behind her ear with infinite tenderness. Sansa wished for a thousand more moments like that.

“I’m not strong enough to stay,” murmured Arya. “I’ll die out there, with my sword in hand.” 

Sansa regarded her little sister. Memorizing her features. “You are the strongest person I know.”  _ I love you.  _

Arya moved too fast, pressing into Sansa’s arms, and then all too soon, slipping away. She paused in the doorway, Needle half-drawn, and blew Sansa a kiss. Then she was gone. 

Now Sansa stood alone, responsible for the hundreds of frantic hearts beating alongside her own. The sound of blood pounding through her veins filled her ears. Time stilled and crystallized before her. She saw Hero, the Astapori man with the broken leg, open his mouth to yell, but no sound came out. 

Sansa’s fingers drifted down to caress the matches in her pocket. 

They had painted every inch of Winterfell with wildfyre. Spilled it over the well-worn stones she had trod as a child, soaked it into the tapestries she had traced so many times over. The seat of the North dripped with the ghastly green. 

More deadly casks filled the crypt, still and silent as the graves that surrounded them. Waiting to be called upon. 

She would wait until the wights clawed at the door. Until the roar of the ice dragons deafened their ears. Until the Night King’s eyes pierced the darkness. 

Her breathing was labored now. The clang of steel against ice rang out. The wailing of dying men butchered the silence, mixing with the inhuman screech of the dead as they tore them down. 

_ Can you still be brave if you’re afraid? _

Sansa lit a match. 

_ That is the only time you can be brave.  _

And the world ended. 

\-------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couple things diverging from the original story. Rickon is no longer alive for the final battle. I also sat down and made a list of all the people who could possibly have stayed behind at Winterfell with Sansa, and you'll see a few mentioned here.


	2. Glass Candles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please enjoy this chapter written in the aftermath of the final season, one of the worst disappointments I have ever experienced. At the finale party I threw, my guests can attest to the fact that I stood up and screamed when they showed Sansa getting dressed in her coronation gown because I was 100000% convinced she was in a wedding dress. Lol@ me still holding out for Jonsa. Also I apparently "needed to sit down" and "was blocking the screen" by yelling at that weird-ass council that somehow didn't recognize either of my girls as leaders. So many disappointments. I will say that I really enjoyed watching those twenty-minute The Game Revealed things for each episode, because its clear how much effort and devotion was given by everyone who was not a writer or showrunner. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope this fic can be a balm for you as it is for me. 
> 
> Recognizable dialogue from “The Pointy End,” A Game of Thrones, A Storm of Swords, and A Dance with Dragons.

_“For even with knowledge, some things are not possible.” - AFFC_

\-------

Sansa floated, drowsy and sleep-warm. The sunlight slanting through the high windows told her it was quite late, later than she ought to sleep. She must have slept a long time. It was hard to put her finger on the reason, but she knew it had been quite some time she had rested so long or so well.

She stretched, and rolled over on her back, pulling the covers up around her chin. The ceiling pricked at her memory. It was familiar, in a forgotten sort of way. She reached up as if to touch the wooden beams that criss-crossed above her head. _Jonquil and her sisters._ Once upon a time she had fallen asleep, dreaming that the knots in the wood formed their laughing faces. The whorl to the left was the flourish of the Dragonknight’s cloak.

Her head felt heavy and cloudy, like she’d been given too much milk of the poppy. It was a struggle to sit up. Her legs tangled in the furs, and she kicked them away.

There was an empty bed beside her, the covers in disarray. _Arya._ A storm of memories rolled and crackled like thunder in her skull, threatening to make her sick.

She forced her stiff limbs to move, and half-fell out of the bed, smacking her knees on the stone floor. “Arya?” she tried. Her voice was rough from disuse, like she’d caught a summer cold. _Frog in your throat,_ their mother used to call it.

There was no answer.

Panic crept up her throat like a flush. Sansa’s eyes darted around the room, _their_ room. There was a painted hope chest with her name embossed across the top at the foot of her girlhood bed. Arya’s matching one was opened, the contents strewn across the floor.

Everything was a mess. Clothes, books, boots, and toys were pulled out of every nook and cranny. Sansa sifted through the clutter, uncovering a little doll, the lone survivor of some great wreckage. The face was pretty enough, but the silk of her dress and hair had been ruined with water and mud.

_“Look what you did!” Sansa screamed. “You ruined her!”_

_“She wanted to go swimming!” Arya argued hotly._

_Sansa picked despairingly at the doll. Septa Mordane had been full of praise for how small she had made the stitches on the dress, and now it was all spoiled. The lovely lace cuffing at the sleeves, and the delicate embroidery on the skirt. Two of the seed pearls on the bodice were missing, probably at the bottom of whatever bog Arya had been tramping through._

_“Dolls don’t go swimming.” Her eyes were wet. “You’re horrible.”_

_Arya burst into tears, and ran off. Sansa felt horrible herself for a moment, but then she remembered that Arya would be running off to wail in Robb or Father or Jon Snow’s ear, and they would soothe her tears and tell her all was well, and no one would care that all of her hard work had been ruined..._

The doll fell from Sansa’s fingers. “Arya!” 

The world was shifting like so many broken pieces beneath her feet. Something was terribly wrong, and she needed to find her sister. Sansa snatched a dress off the floor. And then another. And then another. They were so small.

Her fingers shook as she unbuttoned her nightdress, and pulled it off. Her arms, her legs, her chest, and stomach. Everything was smooth and unscarred. The raised, rippling skin where blades and chainmail bitten cruelly into her flesh was gone. Only the memory of the hurt lingered.

Sansa sank to her knees, and bit her fist to keep from crying. The little dress fit her. They all did. They were hers.

She managed to tie her stocking ribbons with clumsy fingers, and find a pair of boots before slipping from the room into an empty hall. Voices clattered down the hallway, echoing from the courtyard beyond.

On the wall before her was a tapestry. Something that there were no more of in Winterfell. They’d all been burned or stolen, and Sansa had barely been able to repair the outer walls of the castle before Winter came, much less dress the inside. But she recognized this one.

It was old. Older than her, older than her father or his. The threads were rough from age, but it had been well-made, depicting the Kings of Winter in the Godswood. Silver threads dappled their crowns. She still remembered how they twinkled in the torchlight. It had been one of the things that Sansa looked for in the ruins of this hall, but never found.  

Sansa dragged her finger down the cheek of Bran the Builder. _What was this place?_

Two serving girls burst into the hall, causing Sansa to jump back as if burned. Their heads were bent together as they giggled. “My lady,” they chirped, offering quick bobbing curtsies before skipping off.

Sansa gazed after them, unable to recall their names. It was as if she had seen them in a long ago dream, their faces smudged and indistinct in her murky well of memories. _Was this a dream?_

Littlefinger had told her once that it was possible to control your dreams, if only you realized what was happening when you were in the midst of it. Picture what you wanted in your mind’s eye, and it would come true.

Sunlight streamed through an open window ahead, making a golden patch on the grey stones. The wooden shutter swayed in the sweet breeze. Sansa reached for the windowsill, and curled her fingers over the edge.

For half a moment, the sight was familiar. How often had she stood surveying the frantic activity of their wartime preparations? But there was no tension in the scene below her, no desperate prayers on lips, or the cloying scent of fear in the air. The sky was bluer than Sansa remembered a northern sky ever being.  

“The whole thing’s come down,” a voice boomed from below. “Nearly scared the colts t’death. Would have crushed the old mare if Joseth hadn’t had the sense t’put her in with the fillies the night before.”

“Any injuries?”

“No, m’lord.”

“Have the stable boys get rid of the rotten beams, and remind them to pull out the nails. For every ten they save Mikken the trouble of making, they’ll have extra portions at dinner.”

“It’ll be done, m’lord. I’ll send Harwin and the boys out on the morrow into the Wolfswood for new timber.”

“See that it is,” said Ned Stark.

Sansa hung onto the window, lest she crumple to the ground. The statue of her father that had been placed in the crypts was a well-likeness of his solemn face. The stonemason had captured all of his dignity, but none of his tenderness. When she closed her eyes, the memory of his face was clouded with her grief.

And then he looked up, a smile crinkling his grey eyes when he spotted her. “Good morning, sweetling,” he called.

Sansa’s legs which had been heavy as lead, were suddenly light. She hardly touched the ground as she flew down the hallway, and out into the open air. At the top of the stairs, she stood watching, as her father and Hullen meandered towards her.

“Father?” she asked, so low that she feared he would not hear. But he did.

“You’re as white as milk.” Her father reached for her. “What has you so distressed?” Sansa stared for a moment, before climbing down and taking his hand.  

He pulled her close to him, and pinched her chin up to examine her face. “Have you been fighting with your sister again?”

Sansa shook her head. It felt like there was water clogging her ears. “I’m sorry, Father,” she choked out. “I didn’t mean it.” She pulled her hand away.

_“But I love, Joff,” Sansa wailed._

_“How well I know that, child,” said Cersei. Her voice was syrupy sweet honey. “Why else should you have come to me and told me your father’s plan to send you away from us, if not for love?”_

_“Please, please you have to let me marry Joffrey. I’ll be ever so good a wife to him, you’ll see. I’ll be a good queen just like you, I promise. I promise.”_

Sansa covered her mouth. Her lips trembled against her palm. She was a child again, haunted by a child’s guilt and fears.

“Sansa.” The warm timbre of her father’s voice was soothing. “What is it, my love?”

_The world burned, and I struck the match._

Sansa opened her eyes. Ned crouched above her, his great brow drawn together in concern. There was nothing accusatory or knowing in his eyes.

“A bad dream,” Sansa lied.

Ned chuckled. His face relaxed. “Is that all? I feared the worst. Don’t fret, my love. What haunts us in dreams is frightened away by the break of day.”

“Tis true, my lady,” said Hullen. “Nasty things can’t stand the sun.”

The sun had glinted off Father’s broadsword when Ser Ilyn swung it on the steps of Baelor. Sansa laid her hand against her father’s cheek. It was warm, and rough with stubble. “I was afraid,” she whispered. She threw her arms around his neck, and held him. Her heart skipped a beat in the moment it took for his hands to come up and cradle her against his chest.

Too soon, he was pulling away, setting her back with a firm, but gentle hand. “I’ll have no more dwelling on nightmares in the daytime. Now run along. Septa Mordane is surely looking for you at this hour. And where is your sister?”

Before Sansa could answer, Ned sighed. “Never you mind. I’m sure Arya is underfoot somewhere. I’ll see to it that she’s found, and sent off to lessons. You shan’t need to worry over it.”

He kissed the top her her head, and strode off, step in step with Hullen.

Sansa’s legs were weak, and she collapsed with a thump on the stairs. She pressed her cheek against the railing, and watched her father walk away. She wanted to scream or shout, loud enough to call him back. Frighten him with horror stories. Spill her sorrow into puddles at his feet. But she didn’t say a word.

She sat frozen, until a warm hand slipped into hers.    

“What are you doing here?” Jeyne Poole’s nose wrinkled up. “Your dress will get all dirty. And Septa Mordane is looking for you.” She huffed. “And your _sister_ is nowhere to be found of course.”

“Jeyne,” whispered Sansa. “You’re here.”

“Beth and I saved you teacakes at breakfast,” chartered Jeyne. “And Beth thought that you must be sick for sleeping so late. She wanted to come and see you, but I told her that if you _were_ sick then you shouldn’t be disturbed, and I shan’t be the one who does.” She paused for a breath. “Are you sick?”

“No - ”

“ - Good, because it would be terribly boring to spend a whole day without you. Beth would be there of course, but it’s not quite the same, is it? I’m ever so glad that you’re not sick.” Jeyne tugged on Sansa’s hand. “Don’t you want to go to lessons?”

Sansa took a half-step, and then looked back. “I can’t find Arya.”

Jeyne sniffed. “Of course you can’t. She’s never where she’s supposed to be, is she? Well it doesn’t matter. We’ll have a perfectly lovely time, just the three of us.”

“I need to find her,” argued Sansa, but Jeyne wasn’t listening. She pulled Sansa behind her, while telling her about one of the scullery maids that had been caught behind the kitchens _making_ with a farm boy, and wasn’t that simply atrocious? And of course Jeyne was above gossiping about these sort of things, but she simply had to tell Sansa, so that Sansa would know how absolutely scandalized Jeyne was by the entire thing.

“Girls.” A septa appeared in their way, wagging her finger in their faces. “Where have you been?”

Sansa looked at the woman standing in front of them with her neatly coiffed habit, and stern mouth. That was _her_ septa there, looking none too happy to see them.   

_“Hush!” Sansa had never seen her Septa so pale. “Go back to your room. Bar the doors, and do not open them for anyone you do not know!”_

_“What is it? What’s happening?”_

_“Do as I told you.”_

_And so Sansa had turned heel and ran, leaving Septa Mordane behind._

“Maidens ought to rise with the first blush of dawn,” said Septa Mordane. “Not when the sun is halfway across the sky.”

_“That’s your septa.” There was a horrible delight radiating off of Joffrey’s words like they were playing some dreadful game._

_But Sansa could not even have told that it was a woman. The jaw had rotted off her face, and the birds had eaten one ear, and most of a cheek._

“I’m so sorry,” Sansa told her. A tear slid down her nose.

“Goodness,” said Septa Mordane when she saw Sansa’s wet face. “Just take more care next time.”

“Yes, Septa,” said Jeyne dutifully. Sansa managed a stiff nod.

“Good. Now, come along.”

Little Beth Cassel wound her arm through Sansa’s, and looked as though she would crumple into tears herself, when she spotted them on Sansa’s cheeks.

“Don’t cry,” said Sansa. She tucked a curl behind Beth’s ear. “Everything will be alright.”

Septa Mordane brought them into a sitting room, that Sansa recognized as one which she had repurposed as living quarters during the war. She put an embroidery hoop in Sansa’s hands, and Sansa recognized a piece that by her estimation, she had begin nearly eight years before. It was a silly, fanciful picture of dancing maidens in a meadow. Under her septa’s watchful eye, she picked up her needle, and put shoes on the barefoot one and roses in the hair of another.

She helped Beth rethread her needle, and Jeyne to straighten her stitches while Septa Mordane recited the story of King Hugor, crowned by the Father himself with seven stars from heaven, and Queen Ilana whom the Mother and the Maiden fashioned from a willow tree with their own hands.  

_“...the Crone fo_ _retold that she would bear the king four-and-forty mighty sons. The Warrior ga_ _ve strength to their arms, whilst the Smith w_ _rought for each a suit of iron plates…”_

The door creaked, and Sansa’s head snapped up. A slight figure peered into the room, tangled hair falling around her face.

“There you are!” Septa Mordane’s voice was jarringly loud. “Young lady, we will be having words about the meaning of punctuality and preparation. Do I make myself clear?”

“Arya,” Sansa breathed. This was her sister as she had been before they had ever ridden south. A child, no taller than Beth, with full, babyish cheeks.

All except for her eyes. Arya’s grey eyes were deep, hollow pools. Too old for this child’s face.

Arya was regarding Septa Mordane as a canary might a cat. Her sister’s fingers were twitching as if searching for something to hold onto. _No sudden movements. Ask before you reach out._ Sansa knew that Arya’s glassy-eyed stare meant she was slipping between this world and another.

“Arya,” Sansa called. “Look at me.” She stood, and the embroidery fell to the floor. Her hands, she kept loose at her sides, palms turned in. “It’s me, Arya. Come here.”

Arya turned towards her. She tilted her head, and her face relaxed slightly.

“What’s wrong with her?” Jeyne blurted out.

Arya hissed at Jeyne, and looked at Sansa. _“Iksis bisa iā ngot?”_  

Sansa shook her head. “I don’t understand. Tell me in the Common Tongue.”

_“Issi ao iā rele?”_

“Enough,” snapped Septa Mordane. “I’ve had quite enough of your cheek. Your mother will be hearing about this little display, mark my words.”

“Stop!” Sansa shrieked, but it was too late. Septa Mordane grabbed Arya’s upper arm. Arya snarled, and kicked at her before twisting away, and sprinting for the door. Beth screamed, throwing her hands over her ears.

“That child is a terror!” Septa Mordane’s face was as red as a pomegranate. “I won’t do it anymore, I refuse! I will not be treated like this!”

“Arya,” Sansa shouted. “Arya, stop!” She toppled her chair in her haste, and ran after her sister. Septa Mordane and Jeyne’s horrified exclamations ran out behind her as she fled.

\-------

Arya flexed her stiff fingers, rubbing the uncalloused skin. The physical effects of the poison seemed to be wearing off, albeit slowly. Her head still felt like it was stuffed with cotton, and she couldn’t still the tremor running through her. She wished she had a proper weapon, but the most she’d been able to find was an old letter opener.

Her breathing was shallow. She needed to steady it. At any moment she would need to run, and it would be impossible to get away on empty lungs.

_Breathe,_ Sansa’s voice whispered in her ear. _Count._

_One._ Breathe in. _Two._ Breathe out. _One._ Breathe in. _Two._ Breathe out.

Arya burst into tears. The letter opener clattered on the floor beside her, and she hugged her knees and sobbed. It had all been a trick, all of it - her triumph over the Waif, her revenge on the Freys, the long ride up the Kingsroad to _home,_ Sansa, Bran, Jon, the wights, the dragons. She still lay blind somewhere in Braavos, not Arya Stark at all, still no one. No one at all.  

Arya Stark had Needle, and Needle was nowhere to be found. Arya Stark had deep scars cutting across her stomach, and she had seen for herself this morning the unmarred skin of her belly. What poison had the House of Black and White given her to make her childhood memories play before her eyes?

_Maybe I’m dead_. A corpse, or a wight, or a face on the wall. Her hands shook as she took the letter opener, and pressed the tip to her thumb. Corpses did not bleed, and wights bled dry, black dust. The pain in her thumb sung sharp and sweet, a bright bead of blood welling up against the point of the blade.

Arya sucked on the cut, and closed her eyes. She thought of Yna, the maegi at Happy Port who claimed she could tell your future from the taste of a single drop of blood. But Arya tasted nothing but bitter iron, and when she opened her eyes, it was to the same view as before of the library alcove.

She’d woken up in her old room, choking on the memory of cold. Beside her, slept a girl who was and wasn’t Sansa. The girl was sleeping with her hands folded under her cheek like she had fallen asleep mid prayer. But Sansa didn’t pray anymore.

She looked as Arya’s sister had at one-and-three. When she shifted and sighed, it looked like she was dreaming of happy things. Ever so lightly, Arya had touched a strand of the girl’s hair that lay across the pillow. It felt too real. Before slipping away, Arya had tucked the corners of the girl’s blanket more snugly around her shoulders.

And then she had found the same girl sitting over embroidery, just as Sansa used so sit, so perfect and poised. But the girl looked so sadly at Arya, that Arya thought she might cry. Arya wanted to comfort her, but then the screeching woman had grabbed for her, and Arya had retreated without a second thought.

Now she sat alone with her fears, tears drying on her cheeks. _I don’t want to be alone anymore._

The thump of a door opening and shutting, brought every muscle in her body to attention. It was accompanied by the tapping of feet, and murmuring of voices.

Arya cocked her head, and listened.

“The riders from White Harbor will be leaving on the morrow.”

“Good. Ensure that they are given provisions for the journey, as well as the gifts I’ve set aside for Lord Manderly. He has a hearty appreciation for Gage’s apple-smoked pork. There should be several fine skeins of wool sent for Lady Leona and her daughters as well.”

The woman’s voice sent a shiver down Arya’s spine. She crept from her hiding place between the library stacks, and peeped out.

A woman with long, red hair sat at the table across from a a man with a somber face. Arya knew that man. It was Jeyne’s father, Vayon Poole. Father’s steward. The woman across from him could have been Sansa, but Arya knew that was not quite right.

“It will be done, my lady.”

“With the silver they delivered, we should have more than enough in the coiffers to send a shipment to King’s Landing. Pack it, and Lord Stark will select an escort.”

“Yes, my lady. Lord Manderly was also wondering if we might send his lord’s confirmation for his new customs officers. Shall we send it back with the riders?”

The woman offered her hand for the papers, and scanned it quickly. “Send this off with a raven, and make a note of it for Lord Stark to review later. There’s no reason to delay the confirmation until the riders return to White Harbor.”

She signed the paper with a flourish, and waited while Vayon heated a spoon of wax. When it was poured onto the envelope flap, she pressed her seal into it. She blew on it to dry it, and then offered it back. Vayon took it with a brief bow.

Arya leaned forward. Her hand slipped on a scroll, and it clattered to the ground. Before she could flee, the woman’s eyes snapped to her. “Arya, come here.”

Catelyn Stark’s face was half-shadowed in the dim light of the library, but Arya knew at once that every feature of it was perfect. What kind of poison rendered one’s own mother in such exquisite detail? Every bit of her face was familiar from the high arch of her eyebrows, to the proud point of her nose. The mix of exasperation and affection in her blue eyes rang true in Arya’s memories.

Arya stepped forward.

“That will be all, Vayon, thank you.”

“My lady.”

Her mother hummed expectantly, pursing her lips. Arya blinked, and saw Sansa sitting there with the same expression.

“You should be at lessons with your sister. Care to explain why you’re hiding in the library?”

_Riverrun had become a battlefield. No, a butcher’s den. The flames from the feasting tents stretched halfway up the sky. Some of the barracks tents were burning too, and half a hundred silk pavilions. Everywhere swords were singing.”_

“ _And now the rains weep o’er his hall, with not a soul to hear.”_

“Well?”

_The black sky wept, the river grumbled, men cursed and died. Arya had mud in her teeth and her face was wet. Rain. It’s only rain. That’s all it is . “We’re here ,” she shouted. Her voice sounded thin and scared, a little girl’s voice. “Robb’s just in the castle, and my mother. The gate’s even open.” There were no more Freys riding out. I came so far. “We have to go get my mother.”_

_“Stupid little bitch.” Flames glinted off the snout of the Hound’s helm, and made the steel teeth shine. “You go in there, you won’t come out. Maybe Frey will let you kiss your mother’s corpse.”_

_“Maybe we can save her . . . ”_

Arya shuddered.

Catelyn swept over in a rustle of skirts and furs. “Show me what’s in your hand.”

Arya didn’t move.

Catelyn sighed. “Now, Arya.”

Arya slowly uncurled her fingers, and showed her mother the letter opener.

“What were you planning to do with that?”

_Save you._

“Never mind,” said Catelyn. She plucked the letter opener from Arya’s hand, and set it on the table. “Sit.” She pointed to Vayon’s vacated seat. “If you refuse to attend lessons, you will sit here with me. No more of this running wild nonsense. You’re getting older, Arya. It’s time to start acting like it.”

Catelyn fell silent. The only sound was of her quill scratching against the parchment. Arya studied her mother’s face. Two lines had appeared between her eyebrows as she concentrated. Arya frowned, and reached up to feel for the same lines in her own features. They were there.

“Mama?” rasped Arya.

“Mama?” Catelyn stopped writing, and looked at her. “You haven’t called me that since you were a babe.”

“I ran so fast,” Arya hiccuped. The tears she was holding back erupted in a flood.  “I could have run faster, I’m so sorry. I tried. I tried so hard.”

_Arya spun away from him and darted for the gate. The portcullis was coming down, but slowly. I have to run faster. The mud slowed her, though, and then the water. Run fast as a wolf. The drawbridge had begun to lift, the water running off it in a sheet, the mud falling in heavy clots. Faster. She heard loud splashing and looked back to see Stranger pounding after her, sending up gouts of water with every stride. She saw the longaxe too, still wet with blood and brains. And Arya ran. She ran faster than she had ever run before, her head down and her feet churning up the river, she ran from him as Mycah must have run._

_Mama!_

_The Hound’s axe took her in the back of the head_

“Arya, Arya,” soothed Catelyn. And then Arya was being pulled onto her lap, and held tightly. She was soft, and warm, and _safe. This is my mother._ Catelyn rocked her back and forth, carding her fingers through Arya’s hair.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Catelyn pulled back, and wiped at Arya’s face with a handkerchief. “Tell me, what’s the matter? It can’t be bad as all that.” She rubbed Arya’s cheek. “Something with your sister, perhaps?”

“Sansa,” whispered Arya. She found her mother’s hand, and stroked her fingers. _“Sesīr lo iksā daor rele, nyke iēdrosa jorrāelagon ao.”_

Catelyn’s brow creased. “What was that?”

Arya buried her nose in Catelyn’s neck, breathing in the smell of her mother.

“Promise me you’ll be more tolerant of your sister. And respectful to your septa.”

“I promise,” mumbled Arya.

“Very well,” said Catelyn, kissing her ear. “Now, be a good girl, and dry those tears. Run along and offer Septa Mordane your fervent apologies for being late to soothe her ruffled feathers.” She put Arya back on the ground. “And. No. Sharp. Objects.”

Arya kept her mouth shut. She couldn’t promise that.

\-------

Jon’s ears were still ringing with the screams of the dead when he opened his eyes. _He had been falling._ Scrabbling in the covers, he misjudged the edge of the bed, and wound up retching on the floor, crouched on his hands and knees. He was weak and sweating. His throat and lungs burned from the vomit.

When he had finished being sick, he collapsed against the blissfully cool stones, trying to slow his frantic heartbeat. _What room was this?_

There was a pounding in his head, connected to a stabbing pain in his eyes. It seemed the like the very walls were shaking, and Jon realized that someone was knocking at the door. He couldn’t speak to call out.

“JON!” Someone was hollering his name, the hammering at the door was getting louder. Jon clambered to his feet, clutching at the bedpost to keep himself upright.

The door banged open, to reveal a grinning boy, dressed in a leather breastplate stamped with a howling wolf. A taller, dark-haired boy slunk in behind him.

Jon wiped the sick from his mouth with a shaking hand. His legs gave out, and he slid to the ground. Would this be his torture for failure? To look upon the face of the brother he’d lost? Who’s kingdom he’d taken back, only to lead it to ruin? Jon felt the searing points of a phantom crown, burning his head.

Robb’s ghost made a face. “What’s that awful smell? Have you been sick?”  

“It smells worse than a privy in here,” gagged the other boy.

“Theon, go and fetch Maester Luwin. Tell him that Jon’s sick.”

“Piss off. A maid can do that.”

“Then _find_ a maid,” demanded Robb.    

Theon left with a curse, slamming the door behind him. Jon’s eyes darted between the closed door, and Robb who sat down on the bed, as far from the puddle of vomit as possible.

“What’s the matter with you?”

Jon knew what death was. It was the white heat of pain growing fainter and fainter like a dying star, the cry of a wolf receding in the distance, the waves of the sea pulling away from the shore. It wasn’t bright and agonizing, like the knife’s edge of guileless concern on Robb’s face.   

“Well say something,” said Robb. “Did the Others take your tongue in the night?”

_When the Others speak it sounds like fingernails on ice, teeth biting chains, makes a man’s blood freeze in his veins, and suffocates his beating heart._

Jon’s body hunched, and curled in on itself. There was a jagged pain in his chest worse than the wound caused by any blade. “I failed you.”

Robb put a hand on his back. The warmth of it made Jon flinch. “What did you say?”

“The girls,” bit Jon. “I couldn’t save them.”

Robb frowned. “The girls? What girls?”

“Sansa.” Her name burned his tongue. “Arya.”

Robb stared at him. “Did you get knocked in the head at all? The girls are fine. They’re in the castle somewhere doing ladies’ things. Or probably Sansa’s doing ladies’ things, and Arya’s making a mockery of them.”

“What?” Jon asked hoarsely. “They’re… they’re here?”    

“Of course, they’re here. Where else would they be?” Robb rubbed his jaw. “I’m telling Maester Luwin you hit your head.”  

Jon buried his face in his hands. He remembered the stubborn set of Arya’s mouth, her hands wrapped tightly around her double-sided blade. Tears had frozen on his cheeks as Rhaegal lifted him higher, wings beating against the wind. He’d lost sight of her brown hair amongst the battalions.

“Jon?” There was a touch of unease in Robb’s voice. “Are you alright?”

_Come home,_ Sansa had told him, kissing his forehead. The truth burned between them like a glowing ember. _I can’t,_ he thought as he fell from Rhaegal’s back into the writhing mass of bodies below. _May they burn us all before we reach Winterfell._

“I’m sorry,” said Jon. “I’m sorry.”  

“Don’t worry about it,” muttered Robb. He patted Jon’s shoulder. “We can go riding another day.”

When Maester Luwin entered, it was to declare that Jon must be suffering from some sort of anxiety due to unbalanced elements in his body. He advised rest, and gave him some sort of spiked wine that Jon poured out when the Maester’s back was turned.

They left him alone in that room, the shutters pulled shut. Terror slithered and coiled under his skin in the darkness. _Daenerys was screaming something, but her voice was taken by the wind. Drogon fell back, and vanished into the storm. “Press forward,” roared Jon, and Rhaegal obeyed his command with a screech, diving blind._

Maybe he should have drank what Maester Luwin had given him. His hand were shaking as he cut through the halls of Winterfell, and crossed the courtyard. A swordsman couldn’t have unsteady hands. _Hands._ He flexed his burned hand, but the skin did not pull or pain him.

He stopped short, so that a boy carrying an armful of wood smacked into him, and dropped it. The boy shouted at him, but Jon was captivated by the smooth skin of his right hand. The flames from the drapes had left shiny scars halfway to his elbow, but now there was nothing. Jon remembered the agony of the cracked skin, oozing with fluid, but it seemed his flesh did not.  

_Jon had plunged his hand into the flames, grabbed a fistful of the burning drapes, and whipped them at the dead man. Let it burn, he prayed as the cloth smothered the corpse, gods, please, please, let it burn._

The boy with the wood cursed at Jon’s retreating back, but Jon’s feet were carrying him forward into the cool of the godswood. The smell of rotting leaves and moist earth swallowed him. He had forgotten that birds sang, and bullfrogs croaked when it was not blanketed in snow. Instead of ice crunching beneath his boots, his footsteps were soundless on the forest floor.

The weirwood loomed before him, its scarlet leaves seeming to sway and beckon. The red tears that had glistened, wet and bloody on the white bark beneath a sheet of ice the last time he had knelt in the godswood, were dry.

_“Gilly and Little Sam will stay in Winterfell. Lady Sansa will watch over them.”_

_“Sam. If you want to to stay…”_

_Sam shook his head. It turned into a full body shudder. “I’ve said my words, Jon. Broken some of them, but I mean to keep some of them as well. As many as I can.”_

_“All we can do,” said Edd._

_“Sam -”_

_“I am the sword in the darkness.” There was a sheen of sweat on Sam’s face despite the chill in the air. “I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers-“_

_“- I am the shield that guards the realms of men,” echoed Jon and Edd._

A sharp intake of breath from behind, made him rise and turn. A shiver rippled up the back of Jon’s neck. A girl had appeared as quietly as if she had stepped out from the black pool. Her face was in shadow, a half-remembered dream.

_Did he remember what bastard boys said to girls like that?_

“My lady.”

She tilted her head, and stepped towards him. Sunlight through the leaves threw her features into relief, so that he could see the deep blue of her eyes. There was so much grief in those eyes. Sorrow clung to her like perfume.

“Jon?”

Sansa collapsed into him, and he caught her. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, hard enough to bruise. Jon buried his face in her neck, and rocked her back and forth.

“I’m sorry,” murmured Jon. He was ashamed of making a blubbering mess on the fabric of her pretty dress, and so many things that sat like a hard knot of pain in the pit of his stomach. “I’m sorry.”

Sansa pulled back, cradling his face in her hands. She’d been crying, too. Her nose was puffy, her eyes red-rimmed and wet. Her thumb came up to stroke the skin over his left eye where a scar once was.

She shook back her sleeves, displaying her arms for his eyes. Sansa had always kept herself strictly covered and armored, but he had glimpsed her scars when she lifted her hand to push her hair back or scratch her nose. Now there were none.

“It’s like a dream,” whispered Sansa.

“A dream?” Jon asked roughly. “A seventh hell. Are we to suffer it all again?” A fitting punishment for himself, but for Sansa? If the gods were just, Sansa would have died peacefully of old age with tens of loving children weeping in her memory. Not like - how it had happened. But he knew all too well they were anything but.  

“I saw Father.” Sansa took his hand, and threaded their fingers together. “And my septa, and Jeyne, and Beth.” She hesitated. “Jon, I came here looking for Arya. I think she remembers.”

“Arya remembers,” Jon said slowly. “What do you remember?”

The blue of Sansa’s eyes darkened. “Everything.”

_I remember the way you sang when you brushed Lady’s coat, the way you beamed when you rode South, I remember the way you looked that day at Castle Black with the snow falling on the crown of your head, and kissing your cheeks. I remember how you looked in candlelight, in storms, under the light of the moon. I remember how stern your mouth was when I left, how it was betrayed by the softness in your eyes._

_I remember everything._

\-------

Ned swung the lantern around the corner. Nothing. “Arya!” His voice echoed into the darkness. “Sansa! Jon!”

“Lord Stark.” Jory stepped into the pool of light, his face pinched and unhappy. “The men have combed through the first keep. There’s no sign of the children.” 

“And Lady Catelyn?”

“She’s sweeping the godswood with Robb and the others.”

Ned rubbed at his face, struggling to keep his features collected.

“Shall we extend the search to Wintertown?” ventured Jory.

“No,” said Ned. “They couldn’t have left the castle. Tell the men to keep looking.”

“Yes, m’lord.”

The broken tower loomed before him, blacker than the sky. It had burned and collapsed near a century before he had been born, and Ned knew the foundation to be ash at best. Ned had started towards it reluctantly, when his light caught the door of the crypts. It was ajar.

It swung open without a sound, and Ned looked down into the blackness. He was unaccustomed to visiting the crypts at night, but the darkness was no different during the day. As he descended, the only sounds were his breathing, and the thump of his boots on the stairs.

At the bottom, Ned lifted his lantern, so that the light danced across the stone faces of his father and Brandon. Further ahead, by Lyanna’s statue, Ned saw two boots sticking out from behind the tomb. When he moved closer, he found Jon sleeping upright, with a sword across his lap. Cuddled up beside him were his daughters, sleeping in each other's arms. The sight of Arya’s mouth hanging open in slumber, apparently unharmed, made his heart break in relief.  

As Ned approached, Jon jerked awake, his hand tightening on the pommel of his sword. His grey eyes were dark in the low-light, questioning.  

“Father?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arya is asking in the Braavosi tongue: 
> 
> Iksis bisa iā ngot? Is this a trick? 
> 
> And then: Issi ao iā rele? Are you real? 
> 
> And then to Catelyn: esīr lo iksā daor rele, nyke iēdrosa jorrāelagon ao. Even if you’re not real, I still love you. 
> 
> These translations are not accurate. I used a Valyrian translator, and then made up some words.


End file.
